What We Have

I come from a long line of immigrants

As I’m reading this book, I’m reliving the horrors of my great-grandmother: Hog-tied to her death; and the sorrows of my grandfather before me: His narrow escape of the same fate, family erased, the rest of his life spent drowning out those early chapters. I’m reading about men being beaten and publicly shamed for their progressive thinking, their tormentors no more than small bullies riding the current train of popular agenda. How insane.

And I’m realizing that I know the history of every cell in my body every atom comes from the generations before my worldview no longer a mystery. Seemingly innocuous thoughts fed to me like soft bread, or warm congee I hear every silent sentiment in my blood, like scars of tortures I never endured.

From birth- we were taught to be scared of communists who will drag you out onto the street to denounce you without provocation, without warning. We were hiding our heritage wary of carrying our American books and ideas over the border to Shenzhen We were told not to speak English, lest it give away our privilege

How freeing it must have felt, then? For us to live in Canada and let our hair grow long? For us to practice, without reprimand, our flutes and violins? No need to swallow saliva that’s thick with subtle slights No hidden counter-revolutionary comments in four-worded phrases, or allegorical poems

And yet. Over fifty years later. I am warned to watch what I say on WhatsApp Apparently, the government still monitors and deletes democratic messages So the fear is not gone. It lives on Interstitially — Passed down, perhaps diluted, through each generation.

While thankful for the dreams I inherited; I only wonder: What my grandparents would’ve done with these same freedoms?

— c.f.fong

(This is a poem I wrote in response while reading the book “Do Not Say We Have Nothing” by Madeleine Thein)

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